


Waking Up

by Elwen_of_the_hidden_valley



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Drunkenness, Gen, Hangover, Meduseld, Post-Quest, Rohan, The Golden Hall, wake - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-27
Updated: 2016-02-27
Packaged: 2018-05-23 14:25:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6119207
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elwen_of_the_hidden_valley/pseuds/Elwen_of_the_hidden_valley
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Théoden's wake is quite a party and Frodo wakes up in the early hours, a little the worse for wear.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Waking Up

**Author's Note:**

> The characters, main events and settings of the tale all belong to JRR Tolkien. This is a non-profit fanfic.

Frodo sat up abruptly. Next to him Sam shifted uneasily but did not wake and beyond him Merry and Pippin lay in a tangled heap. Squinting his eyes against the candlelight . . . which in his opinion was far too bright . . . Frodo watched his cousins, as Merry began to snore. Merry only snored when he had taken too much drink. That thought gave Frodo some comfort against the army of dwarves delving for mithril in his skull. At least Merry would feel like this when he awoke too. 

Merry snorted and rolled over onto his side as Pip dug him firmly in the ribs. Neither cousin opened their eyes or spoke throughout, and Merry’s snores stopped. Frodo remembered them playing out similar scenes after parties in the Shire. How long ago that seemed. Would he ever regain that comfortable life?

Turning his head as carefully as he could, in order to remove the candle’s piercing light from his line of sight, Frodo found himself staring down at Sam. Sam had always been a light sleeper; ready to leap up and provide anything his master may need . . . a glass of water, an extra blanket, a pillow. But even he slept the heavy sleep of one who has imbibed more than his usual quota of ale.

Frodo smiled . . . at least he assumed he smiled. It was difficult to tell because his face felt numb. In truth, he found it rather odd that his face felt nothing but his head felt . . . everything. Recent memory brought images of Sam as he sang and danced and laughed with everyone else tonight. For the first time since they had set out from the Shire, all those months ago, Sam had let go his responsibilities and simply enjoyed himself. It reminded Frodo of summer evenings staggering home from the Green Dragon leaning against each other like a couple of creaking gateposts.

A wave of heat and then chill passed through Frodo’s body and he hunted around urgently for a receptacle. Someone had anticipated his need and when he turned about he found a basin, and a cup of water. He leaned over the basin as his stomach muscles clenched cruelly. 

It was some time later, that he padded back to his blankets, clean basin tucked under one arm. It had taken him several minutes to find somewhere to dispose of the contents but he could not subject his friends to that smell in the morning. If they felt anything like he did the results would be very unpleasant for all concerned.

Having managed to expel every last drop of ale remaining in his stomach, Frodo was no longer feeling sick at least and he downed the cup of cool water that had been left so thoughtfully by his bed. The basin, he placed by Merry’s head, where it would surely be needed in the morning.

Frodo rolled himself in his blankets and it was there, on the borders of sleep, that he realised that this was the first night in months that he had felt . . . normal. He smiled. Not necessarily well, but normal. No fears cavorted at the edges of his dreams. No thirst or hunger gnawed at his innards. The ale had dulled even the ever-present ache in his shoulder and there were no impossible tasks looming on the horizon.

And most of all, no soft cajoling voice twisted his thoughts and muddled his feelings. There was only a blissful silence that at first felt so strange that he had almost missed it . . . had thought he could no longer live without it. But tonight he had indeed lived. Frodo had ceased to be “The Ringbearer” and had become once more, Frodo Baggins, a hobbit of the Shire. 

In Gondor he had always been the centre of the celebrations. He was paraded like some trophy, to be brought out and admired, and had felt he should be on his best behaviour. Here, in Meduseld, he was simply one of the guests at King Theoden’s wake. And what a wake it had been.

His smile broadened. There had been mourning and sadness, to be sure. But then the ale and food had been brought and the folk of Rohan had begun the serious task of celebrating the life of their buried king . . . Theoden. And welcoming in their new king . . . Eomer.

They laughed and sang . . . told stories of his exploits . . . heaped good wishes on his heir . . . they danced and played games . . . riddled riddles . . . drank and ate until the moon had risen high in the night sky. It seemed the people of Rohan could give even hobbits a few lessons in how to party. As the proceedings had grown more raucous most of the elves had departed for more sedate celebration in their pavilions outside the city gates. The hobbits, however, had remained although Frodo had only the vaguest of memories of the end of the night.

The last thing Frodo remembered was Legolas talking to him, but he had not been able to make any sense of the words. The feast had become louder and louder, and beyond the hobbit’s table he watched drowsily as several Rohan warriors tried to dance to the tune of a rather off key fiddle. The ladies had long since had the sense to retire so the large and very inebriated men were dancing with each other . . . or trying to. 

Several of the pairs were merely standing in the middle of the hall arguing good naturedly over who would play lady and who, lord. Watching those that had moved beyond such bickering and were actually navigating the floor, Frodo had difficulty distinguishing who was playing male or female anyway. Indeed it was often the case that feet would become entangled and two large males would tumble to the floor, rolling about helplessly on their backs like giant beetles, howling with laughter as they tried to right themselves.

Amid this uncouth cacophony, the elf’s soft and melodic voice was at first completely lost. When he reached a hand out to Frodo, the hobbit shrank back . . . memory of events in the Prancing Pony still clear in his mind. He knew he was in no fit state, after all the ale he had consumed, to cut any capers . . . and definitely not when partnered with an elf.

When Legolas leaned closer, bringing his lips to Frodo’s ear the hobbit finally made sense of the words. “Frodo. You look tired. Will you allow me to show you to your chamber? I believe that your friends were . . . removed . . . some hours ago and are now sleeping soundly.”

“Thank you. I . . . I think I ha’ better,” the hobbit managed to reply, without slurring his words too much. Frodo stood slowly, swayed and drew in a deep breath. Then immediately wished he had not, as the air hit his alcohol soaked bloodstream and careened wildly about his body, making his head float and his knees sink. 

Legolas caught him easily and swung him up into his arms with a soft chuckle. This sudden and unexpected change of bodily direction was most confusing and Frodo closed his eyes until the ceiling stopped spinning. It was an antic that ceilings had no right to perform, so Frodo decided that his best course of action was to ignore it. At that point a trapdoor had opened beneath him and he spun down and down and down. Frodo was almost relieved to hit the dark nothing at the bottom. Dark nothing at least was just dark . . . and it did . . . nothing.

He had known no more until nausea had awoken him. Snuggling down contentedly into the furs beneath him, he pulled the thick woollen blankets closer. There were still a few hours to dawn and he suspected that everyone would be sleeping late in the morning. 

It was actually strangely pleasant to feel the pounding in his head and to be sick from too much ale. It showed that he was alive . . . that life . . . Frodo Baggins life . . . could perhaps be normal again.

 

END


End file.
